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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988961">hot off the press</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine'>RaeOfFrickingSunshine</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowLaboratory/pseuds/YellowLaboratory'>YellowLaboratory</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outer Banks (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Journalist AU, M/M, honestly just wanted an excuse to collab with annie again, more accurately this is Pure Chaos masquerading as a Journalism AU, she is the wittiest human alive, that's anyones guess, this is our attempt at a Jiara January fic, which gif prompt did we use?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:49:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowLaboratory/pseuds/YellowLaboratory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiara whips her head up, glaring at Pope. “Seriously? Pope – she put me on a bullshit story. It’s a joke.” </p><p>“Hey,” JJ says, standing up from his desk and taking interest in the conversation for the first time. “On the bright side, you’ll be on the job with New York City’s finest photographer.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, JJ,” Kiara seethes. “Anyone with an iPhone could win that fucking award – in fact, Wheezie’s Samsung could probably rank in the top five.” </p><p> <i>or: peterkin runs the most dysfunctional newspaper in all of new york city. chaos ensues.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hot off the press</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to more annie squared delights. we cannot stay away from each other, and this is the unfortunate lovechild as a result. enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“And so I am asking you, Aunt Flora, as to whether I should-”</p><p>“-commit myself to this relationship which has given me so much love and personal development and dedication not only to my inner self, but my outer self.” John B’s words are soft as he reads.</p><p>“-kill a man,” Wheezie speaks louder to drown him out. “Cut off his dick and shove it up his-”</p><p>“It doesn’t say that,” John B’s eyes scan over the page in front of him because he has to print things out in a bigger font or something.</p><p>“I’m summarising,” Wheezie flicks her hand dismissively. </p><p>“You can’t just throw away an eight year relationship over nothing-”</p><p>“I’d say finding your fiance in bed with your sister <em>and</em> your best friend is probably grounds for murder-”</p><p>They both swivel in their wheelie chairs as there’s a dramatic gasp behind them.</p><p>“Did you get it too?” John B asks hopefully.</p><p>“We should kill him, shouldn’t we?” Wheezie confirms.</p><p>“Not that, but yes, probably murder,” Kiara mutters distractedly, eyes scanning the screen. “No - it’s the new food article.” </p><p>There’s a harried squeak of wheels as John B slides back to his workspace, his ribcage colliding with the desk. He proceeds to type in his password incorrectly three times on his lock screen and gets locked out of his laptop for five minutes. </p><p>“What’s it this time?” he frets aloud. </p><p>“Pizza,” Kiara’s voice is glum.</p><p>“Well,” John B’s voice raises in hope. “Pizza can’t be that bad, right?”</p><p>Across his desk, Wheezie cackles as she reads. John B’s face falls minutely. </p><p>“<em>The mozzarella was delicate across the palate and then matured into a sexier, more developed version of itself. The parmesan lavishes itself across the tongue. The grease dripped down one’s chin like-</em>” Kiara starts.</p><p>“-<em>like an avid lover’s</em>,” Wheezie takes over reading with vigour, “<em>dining at Viggo’s will leave you satisfied, fulfilled and best of all, leaving wanting more. </em>Which is probably more than can be said about an evening with Topper.”</p><p>“Well,” John B starts optimistically. “It’s not as bad as the fish restaurant of last week.”</p><p>“It’s not as overtly about Sarah,” Kiara proposes. </p><p>“Incorrect,” Wheezie dismisses. “There’s a whole three lines dedicated to the blonde server’s hands and the way she carries plates with her<em> slender, shapely, womanly fingers splayed upon the flesh coloured china</em>-”</p><p>“Who the fuck pays him for this shit?” Kiara breaths as she scrolls to the offending passage.</p><p>“Me, unfortunately.” Peterkin has a way of moving with no sound. It’s probably the hot pink New Balance sneakers she wears which are a distinct contrast to her uniform of tailored pant suits. Someone once asked why she wore sneakers and she’d responded <em>to chase the story</em> and not joined in with the laughter. “And it’s by page space, which is why he’s in size 7 point font.”</p><p>Kiara tips her head in acknowledgement. “Good choice.”</p><p>Peterkin’s expression doesn’t flicker. “Boardroom in ten. Team meeting. New person.” She swivels on one sized six hot pink New Balance and marches away. Halfway back to her office Peterkin looks over her shoulder and says, “Wheezie. Projector.”</p><p>Wheezie salutes and disappears into the boardroom. There’s the sound of the stepladder being dragged from the wall, and then they can vaguely see Wheezie disappearing into the crawlspace in the ceiling through the glass wall.</p><p>“You’re so her favourite,” John B sulks as he finally enters the correct password and is granted access to his own computer. </p><p>With a bang, the door to the office slams open and two figures emerge. </p><p>“Because I actually do some work,” Kiara points out squarely to John B. She smiles her thanks as Sarah slams a thermos of coffee onto her desk. </p><p>“The traffic this morning,” Sarah complains as she drops her bag onto her desk. “Nightmare.”</p><p>“You take the subway,” Pope points out as he cools down from his morning jog, headphones looped around his neck on a specialist running cord, his arm hooked across his chest in the beginning of his elaborate stretching routine. He has flashing neon armbands on his upper arms and around his ankles despite it being light outside before, during and after his allocated half an hour jog. </p><p>Sarah pointedly ignores him. “Have I missed much?”</p><p>“Board meeting in eight,” Kiara summarises. “And Topper’s Taste’s draft is out.”</p><p>Sarah winces. “How is it?”</p><p>Kiara takes a sip of coffee and deliberates. “There is a blonde server.”</p><p>Sarah mutters, “motherfucker,” quietly and drops down into her chair. “This, kids,” she growls, “is why you don’t shit where you eat. Do not fuck a work colleague. Most of all don’t fuck a writer. They’ll write about your - what is it this time?”</p><p>“Juices,” Kiara confirms. “And long, slender fingers.”</p><p>There’s some banging from the ceiling. They all cast their eyes upwards. </p><p>“Really should get that fixed,” Pope mutters. “It’s a health and safety lawsuit waiting to happen.”</p><p>“Team meeting!” Peterkin yells as she exits her office and power walks to the boardroom.</p><p>There’s a yelp from the ceiling. “I’m not done yet-”</p><p>“It hasn’t been ten minutes-” John B protests wildly.</p><p>“Justice waits for no man!” Peterkin snaps. “Now!”</p><p>They file into the boardroom obediently. Kiara clutches her thermos of coffee and a notepad. Wheezie emerges from the square in the ceiling and climbs delicately onto the stepladder. </p><p>There’s some fighting and elbowing between John B and the recently arrived JJ over who gets the top right seat - the perfect seat for allowing your chin to rest on your chest and to take a subtle power nap. John B, still thrown by the revelations in Topper’s Tastes, is usurped. </p><p>“Everyone - this is Peeler,” Peterkin announces without ceremony once everyone’s settled in and vaguely facing the correct way. “She’s an-” Peterkin stops and squints.</p><p>“Intern,” Pope supplies.</p><p>“Yes,” Peterkin confirms. “For-” she pauses again.</p><p>Pope consults his notes. “Four months.”</p><p>“Four months? Really? Christ. You must be well connected, kid.” Peterkin shakes her head a little. “Anyway. Introductions.” Peterkin points around the collected group. “Pope. He wears many hats here. He’s a reporter, investigative journalist with specialisms in crime, justice, history, medicine and other things. He is also the head of HR, accounts, payroll and health and safety.”</p><p>Pope waves cheerfully. Peeler, looking slightly at a loss, waves back.</p><p>“This is JJ,” Peterkin points at her next victim. “He does jack shit around here but he won Photo Of The Year for the New York City Journalism Association two years running so I can’t fire him. He also wears many hats.”</p><p>“Like proofreader, editor, marketing?” the intern supplies eagerly, keen to prove her mettle.</p><p>Peterkin frowns. “No. Snapbacks. Although, in the winter, he is partial to a beanie.”</p><p>Sarah coughs around a laugh. JJ offers a two fingered wave. </p><p>“Gotta tame the mane somehow,” he offers. </p><p>Peterkin mostly ignores him, continuing on with her introductions. “The gremlin that just crawled from the ceiling runs the Aunt Florence column -”</p><p>“Aunt Flora!” Wheezie corrects indignantly. “And I am <em>not </em>a gremlin.” Wheezie turns directly to Peeler, standing up and sticking her hand out. “My name is Wheezie, and I am the resident relationship expert.” </p><p>“You almost caused two separate lawsuits in the last month because you told the readers to murder their husbands,” Kiara points out, lifting her feet to place them on the conference table. Wheezie whips her head around to glare at Kiara. </p><p>“It was sanctioned by Taylor Swift herself,” Wheezie hisses, but she sits down quickly. Peeler, who had been reaching out to shake Wheezie’s hand, retracts it quietly, her eyes growing a little.</p><p>"Taylor Swift liked that tweet one time and we never hear the end of it," Sarah mutters darkly. Kiara nudges her elbow against Sarah’s knee in solidarity. </p><p>“The voice of reason in the back is Kiara,” Peterkin says, waving vaguely to where Kiara is sitting. Kiara twirls her pen around in her hand and nods in response. “She covers everything I don’t trust the others with.” </p><p>“Which is basically everything,” Kiara adds smugly. </p><p>“Which is basically everything,” Peterkin repeats, but her tone is much more resigned. She shakes her head after a second, moving her eyes around the board room. “Sarah is the head of our social media presence.” </p><p>Sarah smiles brightly, bowing a little in her seat.</p><p>“Oh!” Peeler says brightly. “I didn’t know you guys had any social media!”</p><p>Sarah’s face immediately falls. “Well, that’s not for lack of trying,” she says. “If I had a larger budget -” </p><p>“Not the time,” Peterkin says, though her tone sounds like it may never be the time. “Then, we have -” Peterkin pauses, looking around the boardroom, counting the employees sitting around the table under her breath. “We’re missing one. Which one are we missing?” </p><p>Peterkin directs the question to Pope, but before he can answer, the boardroom door opens. Topper saunters into the room, still wearing his sunglasses and carrying a venti Starbucks cup.</p><p>“Sorry I’m late, didn’t realize we were starting the day with a pow wow,” he says, sliding into the seat next to Sarah. Sarah doesn’t attempt any sort of subtlety when she rolls her chair as far away from him as she can manage in the restricted space. </p><p>Kiara throws a pen cap at Topper, successfully nailing him in the forehead. “Could you at least try a little cultural sensitivity?” </p><p>Topper glares at her, lifting a hand to rub his forehead where Kiara had hit him with the pen cap. </p><p>Peterkin sighs loudly. “That’s Topper,” she says, crossing her arms. </p><p>Peeler looks between Peterkin and Topper a few times, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Peterkin makes no move to provide anything of the sort. </p><p>“Oh, okay,” Peeler finally says, raising an eyebrow. “Are you, uh, an editor, Topper?” </p><p>Topper smirks, pushing his sunglasses up on his head. He stands, offering his hand to Peeler. “Topper Thornton, pleasure to meet you. I run the hugely popular <em>Topper’s Taste </em>restaurant review column. And you are?” </p><p>Peeler shakes his hand, opening her mouth to respond, but Peterkin cuts her off. “She’s the intern. Off limits.” She reaches out and smacks Topper’s hand away. "We can't fire him because his dad owns the building," she advises Peeler as an aside.</p><p>“I wasn’t trying anything!” Topper exclaims, and the entire boardroom rolls their eyes. </p><p>“Bullshit,” Sarah says under her breath, shoving her chair away from the table and standing up, heading towards the door. “Are we done here? I have an Instagram Story I need to run about Harvey’s restocking that sourdough rye bread. Riveting stuff.” </p><p>Peterkin waves her hand. “Y’all are free to go,” Sarah spins out of the room as Peterkin makes her way around the table. “Peeler, you’re sticking with me today.” </p><p>Peterkin powers out of the room, Peeler struggling to keep up with her. </p><p>Topper watches them go, and then he turns to look at Pope. “Was it just me, or did Sarah sound a little jealous there for a second?” </p><p>Topper raises one eyebrow, looking pretty smug. Pope considers him for a second. </p><p>“You’re a dumbass.” </p><p>"She didn't introduce me," John B whines in a wounded tone. "Why does she always forget me?"</p><p>"You need a better feature," Topper informs him grandly. "<em>Topper's Tastes </em>is revered-"</p><p>"Yeah, by perverts," Kiara mutters. </p><p>"<em>Aunt Flora</em> has more individual mentions on BuzzFeed-" John B defends hotly.</p><p>"I had an entire article," Topper boasts.</p><p>JJ, who had been trying to throw tiny balls of screwed up paper into Kiara's hair without her noticing, cackles somewhat. "Are you talking about <em>Topper Thornton: Top of the Charts or Thorn in Our Sides</em>?"</p><p>"The article came down pretty firmly on the fence-"</p><p>Kiara stands up abruptly. "As fun as this has all been, some of us actually have work to do. Goodbye." Then she too channels her inner Peterkin and storms from the boardroom. The dramatic exit is thwarted somewhat when she trips over the wheel of Sarah's abandoned chair, but she quickly rights herself and carries determinedly on. </p><p>With one last significant look around the remaining team members, Topper struts away on a wave of self worth. His plans are to no doubt to spend the day perusing TripAdvisor to form the basis of his next article. He leaves his coffee cup abandoned on the table.</p><p>"We should stop Topper writing about Sarah," John B frets. "It's inappropriate."</p><p>"We should stop you writing about Sarah," JJ points out. At John B's indignant look, JJ snorts. "<em>Sometimes love just walks in when you least expect it. Like a work colleague, or a long time acquaintance.</em>"</p><p>John B sniffs primly. "Sometimes you have to personalise your answers. Give people the human touch. Tell a few white lies."</p><p>"It was about whether the writer should put her dog down-"</p><p>"I concur. "A new voice calls from the ceiling, and Pope leaps into the air, almost dislodging one of his running armbands as Wheezie's head appears through the ceiling panel. "It's getting ridiculous, John B. Either get on and bone or stay the hell away. Your mooning is making me sick."</p><p>"Bone?" John B splutters in outrage. "That's your sister-"</p><p>"Grow some balls," Wheezie looks ferocious even upside down.</p><p>“When did you even get back up there?” JJ asks, lifting an eyebrow. “You were just sitting next to Kiara…”</p><p>JJ turns to the seat Wheezie had been occupying, still spinning from her recent departure. Wheezie looks pleased with herself. “Gotta move in silence, JJ,” Wheezie says. “Plus, I need to turn off the projector.”</p><p>"Did we even use the projector?" Pope questions. </p><p>There's a sigh from inside the ceiling as Wheezie retreats, and then some clambering. "She never does. Not since Sarah did that forty five minute slide show about curating the LinkedIn expression for employees and summarised it with we should all delete our LinkedIn's. Honestly, she should read the room," Wheezie's voice gets fainter. "Peterkin loves LinkedIn because it's the only place she can boast about speedwalking a twelve minute mile and use the hashtag woman boss."</p><p>"A twelve minute mile is impressive," Pope mutters. "I got two off a full house, anyway." </p><p>JJ picks up the single piece of paper he brought to the meeting. "Oh fuck, I was close too-"</p><p>"I got Peterkin insulting Topper's dad, Wheezie in the ceiling, Sarah complaining about budgets and Peterkin forgetting who she's introducing. I did not get Peterkin insulting John B's contributions to the article whilst condoning Wheezie's due to the fact that John B was not mentioned at all." Pope looks at his friend with a sympathetic grimace. "Sorry, bud."</p><p>John B sighs glumly. </p><p>"I got Topper arriving late with a Starbucks, Peterkin forgetting the intern, Peterkin scaring the intern and Peterkin forgetting John B completely. Again,” JJ says, folding the paper in half.</p><p>"I also got Peterkin forgetting me," John B mutters defeatedly. "I must admit, I had it in there hoping that it wouldn't come true."</p><p>"There's always next time," Pope pacifies. "Maybe I'll do the introductions next. Peterkin didn't even mention Kelce."</p><p>"Kelce works like once every other Tuesday," JJ defends. "John B is here everyday and he has two legit jobs. Photographer and advice column. In fact, I forgot Kelce even worked here until you just mentioned him."</p><p>“That’s unfair,” Pope snaps at JJ. “Kelce makes vital contributions towards this establishment.”</p><p>“Vital being negligible, right?”</p><p>“To be fair,” John B interjects, “last time I went to him with an actual IT query, he Googled the answer. Right in front of me.”</p><p>“Was it how to change your screensaver again?” Pope sighs. “He’s an IT guy, not some trick pony-”</p><p>“It was a query! To do with IT!”</p><p>“Whatever,” Pope waves a hand at John B. “Get back to work, before I report you to HR.”</p><p>“You are HR,” JJ points out. </p><p>“Exactly. Scram.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Excerpt from Topper’s Tastes Review of Pomodoro’s</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>The Pomegranate Martini on Pomodoro’s new menu is equal parts sweet and heady, reminiscent of the tenderness of a young relationship. The Head Bartender crafts a cocktail that will leave you breathless, waiting for another tantalizing rendezvous, much like the ones in the backseat of your father’s car. As it was then, the forbidden fruit is still as intoxicating and luscious as ever, mixed together with a biting citrus vodka (made in house) and a touch of orange blossom water. This love potion will have you coming back again and again, and the only counsel I can offer is this: the front seat of a car is no place for young love or a person befuddled by such a drink. </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>The food, however, is nearly inedible.</em> </strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>"I don't know why I am on this planet," John B laments as Kiara folds an extremely elaborate origami swan out of some printing JJ left on the printer. They have a mini feud where one hides the other one's printing if it's not picked up off the tray within minutes. It's born out of JJ's habit of leaving his printing (which, Kiara notes, is not usually work related) languishing on the printer forevermore.</p><p>It's a feud that's kind of taking over her life. She's perfected every style of paper plane and has even purchased a book on origami. This swan is her latest creation. </p><p>"Kiara," John B snaps. He drops the pint of ice cream from his eye. "Are you even listening to me?"</p><p>"Yes, the world is cruel and you are meek, etcetera etcetera." She holds up her swan. "What's this?"</p><p>John B peers at her creation. Admittedly, one eye is a little swollen. "A goose?" From the look on her face and the scoff, he amends, "a magpie."</p><p>"A magpie?"</p><p>"It looks devious." </p><p>Kiara peers into the face of her paper swan. Sighs heavily. </p><p>John B sighs heavily as well and leans his head back onto the desk with a thud. Resumes holding the ice cream to his face. "My life is over."</p><p>Kiara fiddles with the beak and neck. "If I let you tell me why, will you get off my desk?"</p><p>"Maybe. If I can muster up the energy."</p><p>"Okay. Go."</p><p>"So, I was just innocently in Whole Foods, doing my part for the planet and the world and the Earth and mother nature-"</p><p>"-I've told you to go to the zero waste plastic free store down on seventh-"</p><p>John B waves a hand in the air. "So there I was, doing my civic duty - and I turn around and who do I see?"</p><p>There's a dramatic pause. "Beyonce?" Kiara supplies. "Malala? Ruth Bader Ginsburg?"</p><p>John B frowns at the ceiling. "Isn't she dead?"</p><p>"Tragically so."</p><p>"So no, she was not in the dry produce aisle at Whole Foods. But do you know who was?" He peers through one eye. "Sarah."</p><p>"Sarah? In Whole Foods?" Kiara frowns. "Did she look lost?"</p><p>"And she was with this slightly slimy looking guy who was being all macho and all loud. And I panicked, Kie. I panicked. It's the only explanation."</p><p>Kiara's grip on the tiny swan tightens. "What did you do?"</p><p>John B frowns morosely at the ceiling. "I went in for a hug. I have not and never thought I would hug Sarah Cameron. I've only hugged you twice and we crossed over into friendship territory months ago. I barely think I'm on the acquaintance shortlist for Sarah Cameron."</p><p>"Weird that you've counted our hugs."</p><p>"JJ will tell you, I'm a tactile guy," John B dismisses. </p><p>"A hug isn't too bad," Kiara ventures. "You're not a stranger."</p><p>"Not too bad," John B agrees. And then, darker, "not too bad, if I'd stopped there. You see, slimy guy was standing there all weird and stare-y. And I thought, <em>oh no</em>. I don't want to be one of those colleagues who makes a move on someone in front of their significant other. What a dick move. So I-"</p><p>"Oh no-"</p><p>"I hugged him too," John B relays miserably. "And I can tell you now that he did not appreciate that. So. The punch. And now I, in some poetic misjustice, am banned from Whole Foods. For brawling. When all I was doing was facilitating equality."</p><p>The doors open and John B jerks to sitting, kicking Kiara's keyboard to the floor with one converse clad foot. JJ marches through the door with a camera slung across his body, sunglasses on his face (and another pair on his head), talking rapidly into his phone. </p><p>Kiara takes advantage of the distraction and stands up, collecting the three sheets of JJ's printing she has acquired. There's one hat, one lopsided swan, and one just folded into a star because she ran out of inspiration. She marches across the room to JJ's desk, which is tucked into the corner so he can survey all the going-ons and also escape out the door basically unnoticed. </p><p>He hangs up as she approaches. "What's it this time?" JJ jerks his chin behind Kiara. He's unhooked the camera from around his neck and placed it ever so gently on his desk. "Broken a nail?"</p><p>"He hugged Sarah. Then some man with Sarah. Who punched him. In <em>Whole Foods.</em>"</p><p>"Ouch. Not very wholesome now is it?"</p><p>Kiara inclines her chin to acknowledge the poor attempt at a pun. "He'll be alright. I'll make him some tea."</p><p>"Lavender?" JJ guesses. </p><p>Kiara scoffs. "No. Matcha. <em>Obviously.</em>"</p><p>JJ nods agreeably. "Obviously."</p><p>With a sugar sweet smile, Kiara whips out the swan, the hat, and the star. Sprinkles them onto his desk. "Your printing, sir."</p><p>JJ considers the menagerie. "You could just put it on my desk - which is next to the printer."</p><p>"Or you could just get it yourself instead of expecting a woman to do it for you. As you've pointed out, it's right next to your desk."</p><p>JJ picks up the swan. "What's this? A penguin?"</p><p>Kiara’s tempted to snatch the swan from his ungrateful grasp. </p><p>“You don’t deserve compassion,” Kiara decides. “Nor the fruits of my creative process.”</p><p>Looking like he’s suppressing a grin, JJ brings the swan to his face and squints at it. “If this is said fruits, I think you’d better keep that process untapped.”</p><p>“Bastard,” she accuses, but it’s a quarter friendly. </p><p>When she’s retreated to her desk, she thinks she sees him tucking the swan into the top drawer of his desk. Kiara blinks a little. The printed sheet didn’t seem that important, but then again, she’s never considered herself a connoisseur of the male mind and what could be considered important. Maybe she’d folded up something vital to whatever JJ does in a day.</p><p>Three hours later, Peterkin’s door opens with a flourish, sending the papers Wheezie had stacked on top of the nearby bookshelf flying. Sarah flinches in her seat and screws on the lid of the nail polish from where she’s been giving herself a pedicure.</p><p>Peterkin doesn’t acknowledge the disarray from the papers – she’s nose deep in her pile of manila folders, flipping them open and closing them in rapid succession, far too quickly to actually garner any information from the contents. </p><p>“Everyone, circle up,” Peterkin says, still not looking up from the folders. She steps over the mess of papers she made with the practiced grace of someone who’s done it a thousand times before and makes her way to the middle of all the desks. </p><p>Despite her directive to circle up, no one moves – and frankly, it would be unnecessary to do any such thing. The office is small enough that Peterkin could probably kick any of the desks from where she stands. </p><p>“We got new assignments,” Peterkin says, finally closing the last of the manila folders and looking up. She stares around the room, taking in her employees scattered around the office. “Well, this circle certainly failed geometry.” </p><p>“I went to school for joint honours Media and Women’s Studies,” John B reminds her and everyone else. “Power to the women, as I like to say. But alas, no geometry in sight.”</p><p>Kiara wacks John B’s feet from where they are propped on her desk. Peterkin stares at the ceiling for a second. </p><p>“Yes, John B, and we are all very proud of you,” Peterkin says, and she may or may not add <em>and slightly concerned </em>under her breath<em>. </em>“Regardless of John B’s academic accomplishments, we still have new assignments. Pope, I need you in office this week in case there’s an IRS Audit.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Pope spins around in his chair so quickly it almost sends him flying. “We’re getting audited by the IRS?!” He exclaims, his eyes bugging out of his head. </p><p>Peterkin shrugs. “Maybe. It’s always a possibility.”</p><p>There’s a clammer from the ceiling as one of the ceiling tiles moves and Wheezie pops her head out. Kiara nearly has a heart attack – Peterkin looks completely unfazed. </p><p>“I thought you had an inside man at the IRS?” Wheezie asks.</p><p>Peterkin narrows her eyes and scowls. “What can I say – you can never trust a man.” </p><p>Wheezie nods her head in agreement, grinning maniacally. She holds her hand out for a hi-five from Peterkin. </p><p>Peterkin walks by Wheezie, ignoring her, before turning back towards Pope. “Regardless, I need you in the office, just in case. Heaven knows you're the only one who could explain the missing money to them.” </p><p>Kiara shoots a look at Pope. <em>Missing money? </em>she mouths at him. He shakes his head and shrugs back at her. When she looks back at Peterkin, Wheezie has already disappeared back into the ceiling, like she was never there. There’s only a soft clambering as she crawls across the ceiling to indicate she was ever present. </p><p>“So that means we need someone else to cover the drama down at Court,” Peterkin says, waving one of the manila folders with <em>BREAKING BAD: LEGAL REPERCUSSIONS</em> written on it. Kiara bounces out of her seat, ready to snatch the folder from Peterkin’s hand, but Peterkin turns to the side before she can get there. “Sarah, this one’s for you.” </p><p>Sarah had been filing her nails, her feet propped on her desk with her still drying toenails. When Peterkin waves the manila envelope in front of her, Sarah removes her feet from the desk, eyeing the manila folder like it’s poisonous. She reaches out a tentative hand and takes it from Peterkin, flipping it open to read it’s contents quickly. </p><p>“Me?” She says after a second, pointing a finger at herself and looking up at Peterkin.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Yes, but you’ll need help. John B, you’re with Sarah this week. Make sure you take the lens cover off this time,” Peterkin reminds him. </p><p>John B’s so shocked, he doesn’t even try to remind her that he only forgot to take off the lens cover <em>one time </em>(granted, it had been the entirety of an all expenses paid trip to Washington for the Inauguration of the President of the United States, but still. Only once).</p><p>Sarah looks between the manila folder and John B. “Peterkin, neither of us are reporters –” </p><p>“Did I stutter?” Peterkin asks firmly. </p><p>Kiara, who had been watching the entire exchange in abject horror, finally stands up from her desk.</p><p>“Peterkin, I could definitely take over that assignment. I mean, the Barry Mouton trial isn’t something we should leave to amateurs–” </p><p>“No, no,” Peterkin says, brushing her off. “I have another assignment for you.” </p><p>Peterkin hands her another manila folder, this time with a small hedgehog drawn on the side. </p><p>Kiara flips the folder open, scanning the one-page summary at the front. Her jaw drops just a little bit. </p><p>“You want me to catalog …. urban wildlife?” Kiara says, scrunching her nose up. “What does that even mean?” </p><p>“See, that’s exactly the problem!” Peterkin says, snapping her fingers. “We don’t even know what wildlife is around us! I need my best journalist for the case, we have got to open the eyes of the public.” </p><p>“Open their eyes to rats?” Pope says incredulously. “I feel like that’s the last thing any New Yorker wants.” </p><p>“You are all only proving my point,” Peterkin says, shaking her head. “A complete lack of respect for the biodiversity of our city. Kiara, you and JJ are going to spend the week –”</p><p>“Me and JJ?” Kiara says, looking to where he sits in the corner. He’s tossing a pen up in the air and catching it, and he only looks over when Kiara says his name. </p><p>“What’s going on?” he asks, looking around at everyone staring at him. </p><p>Peterkin sighs. “You’re going to be photographing rats for the next week.” </p><p>“Sick,” JJ says, nodding along and smiling. </p><p>“Like, actual rats,” Kiara implores, hoping he’ll help her argue Peterkin down. “Not politicians.” </p><p>JJ shrugs. “Even better.”</p><p>Kiara groans, throwing the manila folder down on her desk. “There’s no way I can change your mind?” she asks Peterkin one last time. “No way to make you rethink it?” </p><p>“Absolutely not,” Peterkin says without hesitation. Before Kiara can argue – or beg – Peterkin moves back towards the board room, grabbing a broom from where it sits in the corner. She lifts it, banging it against the ceiling three times. </p><p>A ceiling tile disappears, and Wheezie hangs her head down from the ceiling, her hair tumbling down below her in tight curls. “Yeah, boss?” </p><p> “I need three off-the-vine pumpkins,” Peterkin says, returning the broom to its previous position. She makes no move to explain herself. </p><p>“It’s… May?” Wheezie ventures, nodding towards the window. </p><p>“And God help me if they aren’t ripe,” Peterkin says threateningly. Wheezie sighs before disappearing back into the ceiling. </p><p>“What about me, Peterkin?” Topper can’t contain himself any longer. He gets up from his desk eagerly (really just a collapsable table Peterkin found in one of the storage rooms) and nearly trips over some loose wires.</p><p>Peterkin studies him for a second, waiting for him to right himself before she nods once. “There’s a new Mexican restaurant down the street.” </p><p>Topper brightens up. “Of course, Ma’am, no problem. I can have a review printed tomorrow – tonight, even, if you want some light reading –”</p><p>“No, I don’t want a review,” Peterkin says. “I want 3 tacos on my desk by 3:30. I’m feeling peckish” </p><p>Topper deflates as Peterkin walks away, slapping a folder labeled ‘TACOS’ into his chest. </p><p>“Don’t forget the hot sauce this time!” She reminds him before she shuts the door to her office. The door opens again. "But not too hot. Medium-hot." The door closes. </p><p>"I'm going to HR about this," Kiara fumes. "Pope!"</p><p>"Hang on," Pope's been staring after Peterkin with a thoughtful look. Their boss is renowned for her outlandish demands and unorthodox approach, but there's usually some method in the madness. Unless covering the Barry Mouton trial requires a more Avant Garde take to capture the younger audience, there’s really no reason for Peterkin to dole out the assignments this way. With a sigh, Pope pushes away from his desk and spins once in his chair. "Yes? What can I do for you?"</p><p>“I want a reassignment,” Kiara says, folding her hands in front of her. </p><p>“Reassignment from what?” Pope says, shuffling some paperwork on his desk. </p><p>Kiara levels Pope with a look. When she doesn’t answer, Pope looks up in confusion and Kiara rolls her eyes. “What do you think, Pope?” </p><p>“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to be more specific. HR Pope isn’t aware of the situation.” </p><p>Kiara vaguely feels like throwing things. “Peterkin put me on an assignment that’s a waste of time.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Pope hums, flipping over a few papers as if they have anything to do with his current conversation. “Peterkin is your supervisor?” </p><p>“Yes,” Kiara grumbles. </p><p>“Do you believe this decision was based on your gender, race, or sexual orientation?” </p><p>Kiara drops her forehead to the desk with a bang. She sighs loudly. “No, I don’t.” </p><p>“Alright, well, given that Peterkin is your supervisor and there’s no reason to believe her decision was made with any sort of discrimination, there’s nothing I can do to reverse the decision.” </p><p>Kiara wonders if punching Pope is outside of HR’s guidelines. “Fuck off, Pope.” </p><p>“As head of HR, I feel inclined to remind you that profanities are not acceptable in the workplace.” Kiara groans loudly, not lifting her head from the desk. “Besides, this might be good for you. A different type of reporting. A new challenge. You know Peterkin wouldn’t put you on a story unless it was the best thing for you.” </p><p>Kiara whips her head up, glaring at Pope. “Seriously? Pope – she put me on a bullshit story. It’s a joke.” </p><p>“Hey,” JJ says, standing up from his desk and taking interest in the conversation for the first time. “On the bright side, you’ll be on the job with New York City’s finest photographer.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, JJ,” Kiara seethes. “Anyone with an iPhone could win that fucking award – in fact, Wheezie’s <em>Samsung</em> could probably rank in the top five.” </p><p>It’s only after she turns to see JJ that Kiara realizes she might have gone too far. JJ’s eyes are wide, like he hadn’t been expecting her to jump down his throat like that. Which, fair. Kiara and JJ aren’t shy about poking fun at each other, or giving each other shit, but it’s usually not so spiteful. From the look on his face, Kiara can tell she’s clearly crossed a line this time. </p><p>“Yeah, well,” JJ says, snapping his fingers and turning back to his desk. “Not all of us can be Peterkin’s ace reporter.” </p><p>Kiara opens her mouth to apologize, but JJ’s already grabbing his camera and striding out of the office. The door slams shut behind him. </p><p>Kiara looks at Pope helplessly. He stares back at her with wide eyes. “Remember when I sent out the worksheets about guardrails for an inclusive, compassionate workplace last week?” Kiara nods a little. “Clearly, you didn’t read them.”</p><p>“Great,” Kiara groans. “Now I’m on this stupid assignment, and JJ’s pissed at me.” </p><p>Pope types something quickly onto his laptop. “I could send out a digital flyer on conflict resolution between colleagues if you think it’ll help facilitate a conversation between the two of you about forgiveness.”</p><p>Kiara sighs deeply. “Yeah, thanks, Pope.” </p><p>“No problem!” Pope says, typing a few more things on his laptop. “Anything else HR can do for you?” </p><p>Kiara turns away from Pope’s desk, going back to sulk in her own workspace. “Nope,” Kiara says. “I can fuck this up enough myself.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Topper’s Taste Review of La Catedral</em> </strong>
</p><p><strong> <em>What La Catedral lacks in ambiance, it makes up for in finesse. While the dining area is drab – one might even say prison-like – the food is beyond compare. The homemade salsa is a simple yet </em> </strong> <strong> <em>titillating portion, with the right balance of tomatoes, onions, and peppers topped off with just the slightest hint of spice. The Quesadilla, however. Described as 'just like mama used to make' - these warm, moist, juicy pockets of delight play across the palate and tongue in a never-ending, unrelenting affair of pleasure. </em> </strong></p><p> </p><p>"This is demeaning," Kiara complains. They're laid out on their stomachs on some fraying towel JJ pulled out of his bag. </p><p>"We should probably come back at night," JJ muses. He's got his face to the viewfinder of his camera and is pointed towards a group of pigeons being fed by an elderly woman with a wooden cane. </p><p>At first the sight was vaguely heartwarming, but it's been half an hour and all Kiara thinks they have is one or two shots of pigeons and a rock digging into her hip.</p><p>"Do I even want to know why you carry a towel around with you?"</p><p>JJ looks at her sideways. Kiara sighs. </p><p>"Night," JJ repeats. "More animals."</p><p>"If New Yorkers want animals, they'll watch David Attenborough." Kiara squints towards the pigeons once more. One does a shit which plops to the paving, narrowly missing the woman. "I'm not doing overtime for this shit. I'm not paid enough."</p><p>"In general, or for this specifically?"</p><p>"Both."</p><p>Kiara army rolls away from their encampment, which spooks some pigeons. She hears the shutter of JJ's camera go. </p><p>Across the phone line, Pope shouts her demands to Peterkin who tells them they can wrap up for the day and continue at night for the next couple of days. No requirement to come into the office. No payment of overtime. </p><p>"Sweet," JJ summarises when Kiara relays the news. "This is basically a work authorised three day lie in."</p><p>They meet up again a few hours later, just as the sun is setting. JJ texted her an address near Central Park, and Kiara waits there for him until he bounds down the crowded streets, his red hat standing out in the crowd.</p><p>"So where are you thinking?" Kiara says when JJ comes to a stop in front of her, and he takes half a second to catch his breath. Kiara's smarter this time around, and she’s brought a backpack, a thermos and her own sheet to sit on. But this one's a legit picnic blanket - it's got a plastic backing to fend off any dampness. She's used it precisely once for a picnic where they unexpectedly got plagued by ants. </p><p>"There's this wildlife area in the park, so I thought we'd start there. Then a buddy of mine says there are some foxes that go the dumpsters out back of the 7/11 down on twelfth."</p><p>"Dumpsters?"</p><p>JJ's checking things in his own backpack. It has a lot of straps and pockets. There are two cameras slung around his neck - one film, one DSLR. He looks up with a wry grin.</p><p>"You thought we'd just stumble across some deers and birdies in the parks? This is NYC, babe. These motherfuckers have had to adapt. So yes - dumpsters."</p><p>Kiara spreads her picnic blanket out in the allocated spot near the so-called wildlife sanctuary. It's a ramshackle of wooden blocks and tiny wooden buildings, with feeding stations in between. </p><p>"Now," JJ advises. "We wait."</p><p>It takes half an hour for Kiara's arms to go dead where they're propping up her head. An hour before she breaks.</p><p>"I can see how your ADHD ass is attracted to photography," she snarks. "My adrenaline levels are off the scale. Be still, my beating heart."</p><p>"You think you can just waltz in and get the perfect shot off the bat? There's set up. Deliberation. A lot of sitting around freezing your ass off."</p><p>"Sounds thrilling." Kiara unscrews the lid off her thermos and takes a sip. "What I'd give to be covering the Barry Mouton trial and maintaining my journalistic integrity."</p><p>"I'm sure John B and Sarah are doing just fine."</p><p>"All I've seen on social media today is a selfie of Sarah in front of the Courthouse and a picture of John B's dropped breakfast muffin. Spoiler: Sarah steps on it."</p><p>JJ makes a noise in his throat. "That boy does love his breakfast muffins."</p><p>"It's the trial of the year," Kiara complains. "People deserve a true and accurate recording of the facts, not selfies and dropped muffins. We need to speak for the victims-"</p><p>JJ shrugs. "Every single other news outlet will be covering it."</p><p>"That's not the point-"</p><p>"Look, sunshine. You can't be the golden child and right twenty four seven. The way I see it, you've only been here a year and you've already covered things way beyond your paygrade and experience. Sometimes you've gotta do what your boss says even if you think it's bullshit."</p><p>Kiara bites her tongue before she can respond, because she knows JJ’s right. She doesn’t have the prestige or the experience to cover the office’s biggest cases, even if she’s been doing it for the last year. </p><p>But she still can’t help but feel cheated – she’s spent the last year cutting her teeth on the biggest stories, mostly because she’s the only competent writer in the entire office. Pope’s pretty competent as well, but he’s also buried under the small ocean of responsibilities he carries. Kiara has picked up the slack, worked her ass, stayed late and came in early, trying her damndest to be the reporter the office needed her to be. And this is how Peterkin repays her? A few days exiled from her desk, laying on the grass in some park with more trash than plants and JJ Maybank, attempting to capture a picture of any number of rodents. </p><p>JJ lets out a snort that breaks Kiara out of her reverie, and she turns to look at him. He’s looking at his phone, clearly not paying attention to their surroundings.</p><p>“I hope you don’t miss a hedgehog while you’re buried in your phone,” Kiara bites out, and JJ turns to look at her quickly. </p><p>“Nah, a couple of birds just settled on the branches over there,” JJ says, nodding to a bush a few feet away. “If a hedgehog were coming, they’d fly away.” </p><p>Kiara blinks in shock. She didn’t expect him to put that much thought into the process. </p><p>“Besides, everyone needs a mental break,” JJ says, hitting her with a look that makes her suddenly remember that she was staring at the sky only a few minutes ago. “And John B just updated his muffin saga – Sarah got him a new one, and it was gluten free.” </p><p>JJ holds out his phone so Kiara can see the snapchat of John B frowning, holding a muffin with a bite taken out of it. The words <em>“the sad gluten-less muffin is sad” </em>are typed across John B’s forehead. </p><p>Kiara lets out a little bit of a laugh – John B looks ridiculous. “Glad they are getting along.” </p><p>“Yeah, I’m pretty sure John B just about creamed his pants when he was put on an assignment with Sarah.” </p><p>“That’s disgusting,” Kiara says, crinkling up her nose. JJ shrugs a little bit, turning back to his camera and repositioning the lens. Kiara’s silent for a minute, waiting to see if JJ was expecting something to happen. When there’s no surprise animal encounters, Kiara tries again. “So, John B really has a thing for Sarah, huh?” </p><p>JJ levels her with a look. “Yeah, and in other breaking news, the sky is blue, water is wet, and the Pope is Catholic,” he says sarcastically. “Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be an investigative reporter.”</p><p>Kiara takes that jab in stribe because, honestly, she still feels a little bad about her outburst this morning. “Actually,” Kiara says conversationally. “I’m pretty sure Pope is our HR manager.”</p><p>JJ smirks a little. “And the head of Accounting.”</p><p>“And maintenance.”</p><p>“He does a pretty shit job of the last one.” </p><p>“Indeed,” Kiara agrees. “The sink in the women’s bathroom is never going to get fixed.”</p><p>“Why? Is it going to be hard to fix?” JJ says, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“No,” Kiara says dismissively. “Because Pope refuses to go into the women’s bathroom.” </p><p>JJ snorts at that, nodding. “Typical Pope.”</p><p>It's another half an hour before they call in a half time food break.</p><p>JJ insists on eating at Pomodoro’s, solely because Topper had hated it. He tells Kiara he makes it a point to visit every restaurant Topper hates, and that revelation makes her wonder if JJ is perhaps not as much of a dumbass as he appears to be. </p><p>She stops questioning it when they get to Pomodoro’s and JJ orders twenty seven chicken wings and a Pomegranate Martini. </p><p>“What?” He says, when Kiara scoffs at him. “Topper said the martini was good.” </p><p>Kiara hesitates for a minute, and then she orders a pasta dish and the same martini. </p><p>The martinis come in the signature conical glasses, the actual drink a nearly shocking shade of red. Aside from the pomegranate seeds floating around the top, Kiara’s certain the drink could be Kool Aid and vodka. </p><p>JJ lifts his drink up, holding it out to her. Kiara carefully lifts her glasses, clinking it against the side of JJ’s glass and spilling a little bit of the Kool Aid over both of their hands. JJ doesn’t seem to care – he brings the glass to his mouth, slurping at least a third of the drink down in one go. </p><p>Kiara sips hers, and she hates to admit it, but Topper is right. The drink is phenomenal. It may look like vodka and kool aid, but it tastes like a goddamn masterpiece.</p><p>JJ outrightly groans when he comes up for air. “Topper’s got one thing right, man – this drink tastes like good car sex.” </p><p>Kiara snorts so hard, a pomegranate seed almost goes up her nose. “This doesn’t taste like any car sex I’ve ever had.” </p><p>Kiara can’t even blame that one liner on the alcohol – she’s stone cold sober, and here she is, talking to <em>JJ Maybank </em>about car sex. </p><p>JJ smirks at her, lifts one eyebrow. “Then I think you just need to have better car sex.” </p><p>Kiara’s tempted to down the rest of her drink and order another four more – just so she can black out and forget this conversation ever happened. Instead, she takes another gulp of her drink and then sets it down on the table. “HR Pope would not approve of this conversation.” </p><p>“HR Pope would not approve of us going out for drinks.” </p><p>“That’s untrue,” Kiara rationalizes. “Pope goes out with us for drinks all the time. It’s the same thing.” </p><p>“Yeah,” JJ says like he doesn’t believe it at all. “The same thing.” </p><p>Kiara’s not dumb – she notices the differences. Her and JJ alone at a fancy restaurant, sharing Pomegranate Martinis and dinner is far from the usual office happy hour they all go to, but she’s reluctant to admit it. Even if it’s not kosher, she deserves it – she spent the entire day playing Hedgehog Paparazzi, and all they have to show for it is one action shot of a possum attacking an abandoned apple core. Honestly, she deserves a Pomegranate Martini or three. </p><p>*</p><p>“Okay, well, clearly they like each other,” Kiara says, putting her fourth– fifth? – martini down and trying not to slosh it everywhere. JJ’s been outpacing her all night – he’s probably on his sixth or seventh drink, and even he’s starting to show signs of inebriation. </p><p>“We’ve been over this before, Kiara,” JJ sing songs her voice in a way that makes her stomach do a flip, but she tries to squash that feeling. The martinis don’t help. “They are in L-O-V-E love.” </p><p>“So we just need to–” Kiara claps her together, nearly taking out the small colony of water glasses the table has amassed. “ – force them together.”</p><p>JJ snaps at her, nodding. “Genius – we need ideas. How do we get–” JJ hiccups “ – the himbo and the socialite together?”</p><p>“We could lock them in a room together?” Kiara says, tilting her head a little bit and immediately regretting it. The entire world spins for a second before Kiara manages to right herself.</p><p>“We could lock them in the fucking elevator,” JJ says, laughing, and Kiara joins in. </p><p>“We could send anonymous letters to Aunt Flora,” Kiara says offhandedly, once their laughter has died down. </p><p>She says it almost as a joke – honestly, in her current state, she’s not sure anything can be taken seriously. But then JJ’s eyes light up, and it’s suddenly not a joke anymore. </p><p>“Kiara Carrera, you’re a fucking genius,” he says, patting his pockets wildly. “No wonder Peterkin likes you best.” </p><p>Heat rises to Kiara’s cheeks, like it’s a compliment, but it’s not – JJ says it like it’s a fact, like he has no interest in flattering her. It somehow means even more. </p><p>JJ finally finds a pen, and he holds it up in triumph, clicking it once. He grabs a clean napkin from a nearby table, and he turns back to Kiara. </p><p>“<em>Dear Aunt Flora,” </em>he writes, his chicken scratch barely legible on the cheap napkin.</p><p>“Dearest,” Kiara interrupts, giggling a little bit. JJ looks up at her quizzically. “You should put <em>Dearest Aunt Flora.”</em></p><p>JJ breaks out into a shit eating grin. “<em>Dearest Aunt Flora,” </em>He repeats, scratching out his previous words and rewriting them. </p><p>"I am facing a predicament of unprecedented proportions," Kiara dictates. JJ hesitates over some of the words, but then cracks on regardless. "I have been in my job for - wait, how long has he been there?"</p><p>"Same as me. Three years."</p><p>Kiara places her martini down on the table with a little too much force. "Three years? And you've won twice?"</p><p>"Only because Peterkin didn't enter me the first year," JJ explains. It's not faux modesty like when Topper shows off a new car; it's logical, factual. "But - anyone with an iPhone, right?" JJ lets the barb sit for a moment before tapping the pen against the napkin. "Back on task."</p><p>"Where were we?"</p><p>"I have been in my job for-" JJ prompts. </p><p>"Three years," Kiara continues. "And it has been three years of - yearning? Wanting? Admiring?"</p><p>"First one," JJ decides. "Spell it."</p><p>It takes a full fifteen minutes to perfect their first letter. Kiara spins the napkin around to review the contents critically. </p><p>"Do you think it's too eager?" Kiara frets.</p><p>"It's John B."</p><p>"Yes but-"</p><p>"John. B."</p><p>Two more martinis and JJ stands from his chair, swaying a little bit on his feet. “I’ve gotta go take a leak,” he says, pointing a thumb behind him. Kiara giggles loudly. </p><p>He’s only gone a few minutes, and when he comes back, Kiara’s struggling to take a selfie with her drink in the dim light of the restaurant. </p><p>“What are you doing?” JJ says, falling into his seat. </p><p>“I need to send a picture to Sarah,” Kiara explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Show her we got Topper’s drink.” </p><p>“Your picture is going to look like straight shit,” JJ admonishes. “The lighting in here is terrible.” </p><p>Kiara pouts, turning her phone so JJ can see the screen. He’s right – you can barely tell that there’s a human in frame, much less that it’s Kiara. </p><p>“Yeah, no,” JJ says, reaching into his bag where it’s draped across the back of his chair. He pulls out his camera, nearly drops it on the tile floor. “Let me show you why I won best picture two years in a row.” </p><p>Kiara rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything – after the subtle jabs about JJ’s talent, she’s not sure how to play nice. He spends a minute fiddling with the settings, aiming the camera, and then he looks up at Kiara. </p><p>“Smile,” he says, and Kiara lifts her drink as if she’s going to cheers the camera, and smiles widely. </p><p>The flash is blinding – Kiara recoils and spills more of her drink over herself. A man at a table nearby yells at JJ, but he ignores him. He stares down at the camera and nods approvingly to himself. </p><p>“Let me see!” Kiara says, reaching for the camera, but JJ shakes his head, putting the camera back in his backpack. </p><p>“Nah,” JJ says. “We’re going to have to wait for it to get developed.”</p><p>“Cheat,” Kiara accuses him boldly. She suddenly becomes aware of how she’s sitting - perched forwards on her seat, shoulders bowed towards JJ. She slides backwards; reflexively tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. “We should probably go find some wildlife,” she proposes. “Or are we too inebriated?”</p><p>“All the greats work whilst under the influence,” JJ reassures her. He indicates for the bill and throws down the company credit card once it arrives. Kiara settles for fussing with pulling on her jacket and zipping up her backpack. </p><p>JJ’s eyes are sparking as his hand splays above hers on the door. Kiara can feel the warmth from his chest and smell slightly over-egged cologne, along with the slightly weird chemically smell that also emanates from the corner room at the office which serves as a make-shift darkroom. </p><p>JJ looks at her with fire in his eyes and mischief on his face.</p><p>The night ends with a 7/11, a dumpster, and a no-show for a fox. </p><p>They sit on upturned crates, Kiara holding some light that JJ insists is essential. She has to get up every minute to wave her arms so the security light blinks back into life. Then there’s a kerfuffle of her settling back into position, JJ squinting down the camera lens and waving his hand until the light is back in the optimal placement. </p><p>Kiara pulls out her flask and takes a sip. Offers it to JJ.</p><p>“One of your weird teas?” he grimaces. “Hard pass, thanks.”</p><p>“It’s alcoholic,” she informs him. In one quick motion, JJ snatches the flask and tips some into his mouth. Splutters a little at the taste.</p><p>“What the fuck…?”</p><p>“Nettle Kombucha and vodka.” Kiara takes the flask back from him and sips some more. “The more you drink, the less you taste. I got the nettles from Central Park.”</p><p>JJ makes a disbelieving noise but tries again. Gasps, “fuck, that’s strong,” hoarsely. </p><p>“So,” Kiara squints around the alleyway, which is moving steadily despite her holding her head very still. “I think the fantastic fox has alternative plans this evening.”</p><p>“It seems that way.” JJ turns from his position on the ground and before Kiara can pose or react appropriately, there’s the distinct sound of the shutter of the camera. Kiara blinks in its wake. </p><p>JJ takes pictures so often that everyone else doesn’t seem to be fazed by the occurrence. But they’ve never been of her. There’s something so intimate about it, now they’re alone. Kiara blinks away that feeling and reminds herself that it’s literally his job. Sarah shoves a phone in her face regularly - it’s not an unknown phenomenon. </p><p>“Rain check?” Kiara offers. “My bed is calling me.”</p><p>“And someone else, I bet,” JJ takes the light from her grasp. The good mood is extinguished - Kiara’s face falls into a scowl.</p><p>“What?” she demands harshly. “What did you say?”</p><p>JJ looks up from where he's apparently bending the light into his backpack. "It's a sex joke. About your sex life." At Kiara's continued scowl, JJ raises an eyebrow. "From the same school as <em>JJ's longest commitment is to the camera bag we got him for Christmas and I've only seen him use that twice</em>."</p><p>Kiara purses her lips. "Touche."</p><p>The snaps of the bag slot into place. JJ mock salutes. "Maybe getting laid will ease some of that tension."</p><p>"Oh my God," Kiara kicks out at his calf. "I may be inebriated but I'm not incapacitated. Goodbye, Maybank. See your inappropriate ass tomorrow."</p><p>"You wanna see my ass tomorrow?"</p><p>"It's a colloquialism, as you very well know."</p><p>"Alright, journalist." There's a pause. "Just saying - a viewing could be arranged." </p><p>Kiara looks at JJ properly now. Or as properly as she can, considering her vision is more than a little blurred. He looks back, unabashed, hand tucked under his backpacks strap on his shoulder.</p><p>If she knew him better she'd maybe even say that his gaze was challenging or hopeful or…. wanting. </p><p>Kiara clears her throat and looks away. "I'll bear that in mind, predator."</p><p>After one last lingering look, JJ mock salutes and spins on his heel. "Later, alligator."</p><p>He leaves. Kiara stays, blinking into the security light, wondering what she's just missed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Topper’s Taste Review of Rustic Lion Lounge</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>The Rustic Lion Lounge is the second restaurant opened by Head Chef James Cortez, and clearly his more successful endeavor. His appetizers are passable, and the drink menu is adequate, but his talent truly shines in the Eggplant Parmesan. A mouthwatering sauce and velvety hunks of mozzarella are layered between long, thick cut pieces of the vegetable that are cooked to tender, succulent perfection. The breading is neither too thick nor too thin, and all parts of this meal come together in a revel that is satisfying but not domineering, pleasurable but not hedonistic. Paired together with a simple pasta and a fine glass of red wine, one could hardly be confused by the sudden resurgence of the eggplant emoji.</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Why are you all hiding in here?" Kiara demands of the full boardroom. John B, Pope, Sarah, Wheezie, and JJ are all gathered around the long table, most of them with their lunches. She and JJ had only stopped by the office for a second, to see if they could develop a few photos from last night, but now JJ is sitting around the boardroom table with everyone else.</p><p>"Topper microwaved trout gumbo," Sarah explains. "Is it safe out there yet?"</p><p>Kiara glances back into the office to where Topper sits, a lone figure amongst the gathering of empty desks. "I just thought the drains were playing up again."</p><p>"Nope." John B pops the p. "That's all eau de Topper."</p><p>"I still think that home-brewed wine was worse," Wheezie muses as she leafs through the pages before her. "That shit stuck to your tongue."</p><p>"Did you actually try some?" John B recoils in horror. "Tell me it's not so."</p><p>"My mother didn't raise a coward so yes, I tried some. And I will live to regret it."</p><p>"Your mother barely raised you," Sarah dismisses without looking up from her phone. </p><p>"She raised me more than yours did-"</p><p>"Ooo," John B cuts in. "Listen to this one." After a beat which allows everyone to focus on him, he begins. "<em>Dearest Aunt Flora. I am facing a predicament of unprecedented proportions. I've been at my job for three years now and it has been three years of slowly becoming besotted with my colleague. In fact, I am confident I am now in love. I've never met anyone who laughs so much at my jokes or lingers so long at the photocopier when I'm there too. They always listen to my latest hobby and even ask questions a week later. They're a little bitchy to everyone, but with me it seems like there may be an edge to our underlying passion. So tell me Flora, what should I do?</em>" John B finishes reading and places the paper down on the table with a flourish. Looks grandly around the table.</p><p>"I vote don't get inappropriate with your work colleague and keep that shit professional. Nobody wants to have to fend off their work colleagues with a shitty stick." Wheezie assesses bluntly. "Pope looked at me wrong once a month ago and we've not been the same since."</p><p>"Hey," Pope protests, "I just thought pink sequin dungarees were a bold choice, that's all."</p><p>"Sure, Jan," Wheezie retorts disbelievingly. </p><p>"I concur," agrees Sarah. "Like I'm always saying, don't shit where you eat. I am never, ever, ever dating in the work place again." Sarah pauses scrolling through Instagram and looks up to punctuate her point. "<em>Ever.</em>"</p><p>John B has a crease in between his eyebrows as he considers both Wheezie and Sarah. "Well now. You can't be too hasty-"</p><p>"No," Wheezie agrees, with a pained expression. "Unfortunately, Sarah's right. No fraternising with colleagues. You don't see me trying to climb Kelce like a tree do you? There's a line in the sand and you shouldn't cross it."</p><p>"You tried to climb Kelce at the karaoke that one time-"</p><p>"A line," Wheezie half shouts over Sarah. "And professional standards."</p><p>Kiara looks over at JJ with wide eyes, thankful that Wheezie’s distracting the majority of the boardroom from the fact that Kiara’s having an internal crisis. Last night is a little blurry around the edges – and the vague pounding in her head isn’t helping matters. Still, she has some bleary recognition of the letter, and she’s almost certain her and JJ had composed that very letter over drinks the night before, with the express intention of getting Sarah and John B together. And, well, clearly that was working out in their favor. </p><p>When Kiara meets JJ’s eyes, he looks unfazed. He brushes off her concerned look with a wave of his hand. </p><p>At that moment, Wheezie points out the window of the boardroom, back into the office. </p><p>“Oh god,” she wails. “Peterkin’s walking right into trout territory.”</p><p>Everyone in the boardroom whips around to watch the door to Peterkin’s office open, and she steps out of the door, flipping through some paperwork. </p><p>“We should have warned her,” Kiara says.</p><p>JJ scoffs. “You’re such a suck up.”</p><p> Before the words even leave JJ’s mouth, Peterkin is looking up from her papers, and she sniffs the air once. In a second, her entire face contorts in disgust, and her body convulses in a gag. </p><p>She jumps back into her office in a flash, slamming the door shut. </p><p>“You know trout gumbo day is bad when even Peterkin can’t handle it,” Wheezie sighs, flopping back in a chair. “Looks like we’ll be stuck in here for at least another couple hours.” </p><p>“What are you going to do in here?” Sarah asks, flipping through her phone. “You didn’t even grab your laptop.” </p><p>Wheezie glares at her. “It was life or death, <em>Sarah. </em>I saw the incoming gumbo and I jetted out of there. There was no time for trivial things like laptops.” </p><p>Sarah rolls her eyes, then dramatically pulls her laptop out of her backpack. Wheezie ignores her.</p><p>The conference phone in the middle of the table rings, interrupting whatever retort Sarah was going to throw at Wheezie. John B lunges to pick it up before the others can yell at him not to. </p><p>“You’ve reached the New York Inquirer, John Booker Routledge speaking. How can I help you?” He says cheerfully.</p><p>He frowns for a second, then nods along two or three times, and finally he opens his mouth to say something. “No problem –” He pulls the phone away from his ear. “She hung up on me,” he says, dumbfounded. </p><p>“Who was it?” Sarah asks, flipping open her computer. </p><p>“Peterkin,” John B says, staring sadly at the phone for a second before setting it back on it’s dock. “She says that trout gumbo day does not technically count as a health crisis and we have to keep working.”</p><p>“I’m fine right here,” Sarah says, patting her laptop.</p><p>Wheezie sighs loudly, staring at the ceiling. “Lord have mercy,” she mutters, before she gets up and drags her ladder out from the corner. </p><p>“What are you going to do?” JJ asks, looking at her suspiciously. “Propel down from the ceiling and hope the trout smell doesn’t notice?” </p><p>Wheezie ignores him, climbing up the ladder and sticking her head into the ceiling experimentally. “Aw, man!” she exclaims. “It even smells like fish up here!” </p><p>Nevertheless, Wheezie launches herself up into the empty space, the path to her laptop still unclear.</p><p>Kiara watches her go with vague interest. Sarah yells after her, “open some windows while you’re out there!” </p><p>“Also,” John B says, turning in the general direction of both Kiara and JJ. “Peterkin wanted me to ask you two why the hell you were still in the office.” </p><p>“We had to stop by to develop some pictures from last night,” JJ says, spinning around in his chair. </p><p>“She said, and I quote, ‘<em>tell them to go capture a ferret, god damn it.’”</em> John B explains. </p><p>JJ and Kiara look at each other. They had been planning to spend the morning in the dark room, but the dark room was a mere feet away from the offending microwave, and would undoubtedly be one of the worst places to wait out trout gumbo day. </p><p>“We could make a break for it,” JJ says. “Sprint for the exit and hold our breath until we’re out of the building.” </p><p>Kiara considers it for the moment. Tests the sleeve of her cardigan for its ability to be a homemade gas mask. “Honestly, it’s better than being stuck here.” </p><p>JJ nods, slapping his hands on the arms of his chair and standing up. “Well, then, come on, Carrera. We gotta make a break for it.” </p><p>Kiara follows him to the door, standing behind him. JJ pulls his t-shirt up over his nose. Kiara covers her own nose with her cardigan mask. JJ nods once at her, his hand poised on the door handle. </p><p>Suddenly, Wheezie drops her head from one of the ceiling panels near them. Her eyes are kind of watering from too much trout gumbo exposure. </p><p>“I swear to all things holy,” she says. “If you keep that door open longer than 0.5 seconds, I will slaughter you both.” </p><p>JJ waggles his eyebrows. “Sounds like a challenge,” he says, though it’s muffled by his makeshift mask. </p><p>“I’m serious,” Wheezie warns. </p><p>JJ nods. “So am I.” He turns to Kiara. “You ready to go?” </p><p>Kiara nods, mock saluting him. “Whenever you’re ready.”</p><p>Somehow, Kiara can tell he’s smirking even though it’s mostly hidden by his t-shirt. “Alright, Kie, on the count of three,” JJ rests his hand on the door knob again, ready to rip it open and run like a bat out of hell. “1...2...3!” </p><p>On three, JJ throws the door open and grabs Kiara’s hand, taking off like a madman and sprinting through the office. He drags Kiara behind him, forcing her to weave in between the desks and obstacles as fast as him. </p><p>She doesn’t really notice he’s holding her hand until he drops it, once they are safely out on the streets of New York. </p><p>“Ah,” JJ says, pulling his t-shirt down so it no longer covers his nose. “The sweet smell of NYC.” He takes a deep breath. “You know you’ve been somewhere less than pleasant when the streets of New York smell like a breath of fresh air.” </p><p>Kiara huffs out a laugh. “Fucking trout gumbo.” </p><p>JJ laughs, pulling out a map from his backpack. After a moment of unfolding and refolding, he finds his mark. “Alright,” he says. “We have to take the E Train to Forest Hills and then we can walk to Rego Park. There should be some good squirrel activity there today.” </p><p>Kiara kind of recoils. “Didn’t a squirrel attack someone a few days ago at Rego?” </p><p>JJ rolls up his map and points it at her. “Good squirrel activity.” </p><p>Kiara’s about to argue – she’s not looking forward to getting attacked by a rodent – but JJ’s already spun on his heels, heading straight for the nearest subway stop. </p><p>They start their walk in relative quiet, but Kiara decides to break it after a few minutes. </p><p>“Do you think we fucked up with the letter the Aunt Flora?” She blurts out, and JJ turns to look at her. For a terrible second, she thinks he doesn’t remember – or, even worse, that the entire composition of the letter was a hallucination – but then JJ shrugs. </p><p>“Nah,” JJ says. “We’ve gotta push the love birds together.” </p><p>Kiara snorts at his sing-songy voice, but she’s still not convinced. “But Sarah was so adamant about not dating a coworker, I was just thinking…” </p><p>JJ levels her with a look. “You gotta trust the process, Carrera.”</p><p>“We don’t have a process!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up and nearly taking out a random passerby in the process. “We wrote the letter several martini’s deep.” </p><p>“You need to unclench, Kiara,” JJ says, rolling his eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine. Besides, Sarah’s saying that about Topper. If she can’t see the difference between Topper and John B, I don’t know what to tell you.” </p><p>Kiara considers that for a second. “I suppose that’s fair. John B is kind of a simp.” </p><p>“Fuck yeah he is,” JJ says, moving out of the way of a field trip group. “And Topper’s a Grade A Asshole. Kinda makes you wonder why she dated him in the first place.” </p><p>“Hey!” Kiara snaps. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.” </p><p>JJ turns to look at her again. “And as her best friend, you’ve gotta admit her taste in men could be improved.”</p><p>Kiara certainly couldn’t argue with that. Any reservations she may have about playing matchmaker with John B and Sarah are overshadowed by the fact that, generally, John B doesn’t contaminate the entire office with the smell of rotting fish. </p><p>*</p><p>“Do you ever think you’ll ever smell something other than trout gumbo? Like, ever again?”</p><p>Sarah looks up from where she’s trying to get the perfect light and angle on the muffin from the bakery two doors down from the Courthouse. It was getting too stuffy in the Courtroom, and the pair vacated to the front steps to bask in the sun so Sarah’s mascara wouldn’t run. Sarah figures nothing dramatic will happen today, on the basis that nothing dramatic has happened on any day so far. “I can vaguely smell a pain au chocolat.”</p><p>“A pan what?”</p><p>The look Sarah gives John B is scathing. “You uncultured swine.” Having composed the perfect picture for their social media account, Sarah begins unwrapping the muffin. “So. Kie definitely had her hungover face on this morning. She was all squinty. Plus she had a smokey eye but like, yesterday’s makeup kinda smokey eye. Not a thought-out smokey eye. I keep telling her - a proper smokey eye is a process.”</p><p>“JJ also looked a touch fragile-”</p><p>“But that means she didn’t even wash her face. After I went to all that effort to get the specialised ionised water and the reusable organic cotton non-bleached flannels-”</p><p>“You know, I think this might just work-” John B cuts off shortly as someone rushes past and jolts his shoulder. The muffin in his hand topples to the floor. John B stares at his fallen comrade in abject horror.</p><p>“She’s definitely going to break out. And no man is worth that.” Sarah pauses to nudge the fallen muffin with the toe of her Louis Vuitton. “But yeah - this could work. I don’t even think I’d hate them together. Besides, drunk Kie is like, super hot and forward. Messy but hot, you get me?” Sarah looks at John B more fully. He’s pouting vaguely, staring at the muffin spilled on the floor. There is no doubt in her mind that if she weren’t there, he’d have picked it up by now.</p><p>With a sigh, Sarah splits her muffin down the middle and offers him the smaller half. They chew together in silence. When Sarah hums in consideration, John B looks up from the fallen muffin to her in question. “But yeah, I think you’re right. This could very well work. Operation get Kie and JJ laid is go.”</p><p>Around them, people continue rushing up the steps. Some hold cameras or notepads. They watch the sea of people passing by before Sarah reaches out and grabs some girl by the ankle. </p><p>“What’s going on?” she demands.</p><p>“It’s the Barry Mouton case,” the minor babbles. “They’ve just brought out the Attorney General as a witness for the defence-”</p><p>“Oh,” John B says vaguely. “We should probably cover that.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sarah agrees. “That does sound important.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>annie 1: i can wax lyrical about the wonderful, charming, delightful, hilarious annie all day. this collab was discussed before we even finished the last one - that's how keen we are. it was written on a whim and there should be another chapter someday to round this nonsense off. it has been an undoubted pleasure and i think i'm addicted to these collabs but like. in a healthy way. (maybe)</p><p>annie 2: Last time we collabed, Annie and I worked on it for over a month, edited it within an inch of its life, and had enough good sense to employ a beta reader. We also had, like, seven google docs. This time, Annie and I decided to attempt a Jiara January fic about a week and a half ago and so far have only started one singular google doc. Is it chaotic? Yes. Was it just as much fun? Absolutely. Do I love it? Very much so. I also love Annie very, very much. No one else I'd want to discuss fish paste with, or write vaguely embarrassing Topper Taste's Reviews for. Any part of this fic that is even remotely funny or endearing is entirely because of her genius (and also most of the cringey parts as well). </p><p>Anyways, thank you to the entire jiara gc for enabling our chaos and to Lara for organizing the Jiara January event!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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